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Authors: AFN CLARKE

Tags: #ACTION/ADVENTURE/SPY THRILLER SERIES

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BOOK: THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR
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“Indeed. I need a resupply of burn phones.”

“No problem.”

SEVEN

The approach to Belfast city airport
is straightforward. There is only one runway. Surprisingly the weather was clear, but unsurprisingly rain was expected in the late afternoon.

As we crossed the Irish Sea, Julie dozed and I sat listening to Air Traffic Control until they gave me instructions to join the ILS (Instrument Landing System) approach for runway 22. The runway was long enough for big commercial jets, so no problem for the agile Mustang.

Julie stirred, yawned and rubbed her eyes. “We there yet?”

“Nearly. About fifteen minutes.”

“Your buddy going to be here?”

“Probably not.” I told her about my meeting with Danny, but left out the details of our past dealings as they were covered under the Official Secrets Act.

“Bet he's not happy to have me tagging along.”

“Not his call.”

Air Traffic Control interrupted. “Victor Bravo tower you're clear to land Runway Two Two. Wind Two Five Zero at Five.”

I selected full flap, nudged the speed brake a little and lowered the landing gear as we angled down to the runway on the edge of city. The early morning sun glistened off the waters of Belfast Lough, and on the port side of the aircraft, Stormont Castle stood out an impressive landmark south of the city. The little jet touched down just beyond the threshold.

“Victor Bravo turn left taxiway ‘A’ and proceed to the ramp.”

I let the jet roll fast down to the end of the runway then braked, turning left onto the taxiway that led to the General Aviation parking ramp, where a 'ramper' holding orange-coloured paddles directed me to a parking spot. Behind him and to the left I saw a figure, dressed in the uniform of Airport Security who I knew wasn't who he seemed to be. Danny must have flown him in last night, true to his word of watching my back. I wondered if Whitehall knew, and what they had planned. He was all business, checking the aircraft before leading us to the security checkpoint in the small General Aviation building and swiftly searching our bags, without once giving any sign of knowing me. At this moment I really began to fully realise this wasn't a game I was playing.

“Thank you sir, ma'am,” the man said in a broad Belfast accent. “Enjoy your stay.” He looked at me and then glanced casually at a man standing next to a cab just outside the door. Just a slight upward nod of the head that no one else would notice, told me what I needed to know. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and it was all I could do to act like a normal businessman preoccupied with his own world.

It was a ten-minute drive to the Stormont Hotel near the main gates to Stormont Castle. I paid the 'taxi-driver' and followed the porter who carried our suitcases into the hotel lobby. Within minutes we were inside breathing a sigh of relief.

Julie flopped onto the belt. “I was sure that security man was going to find the gun,” she whispered.

I pulled it out of the waistband of my pants where I had it tucked into the small of my back beneath my dark blue blazer, and slid it under the pillow.

Julie reached up and pulled me down onto the bed, her nostrils flared and mouth slightly open. “You need to relax and I need sex,” she said huskily.

“Anything for the lady.”

“I'm no lady right now.”

We made love urgently, passionately, the tension of the weeks and days vanishing in the moment. It was the first time we had been alone since returning to England and Julie was going to make the most of it.

The rental car was waiting
at the front entrance at exactly nine in the morning, as I had ordered and we drove to Dundonald to visit the factory site of Rathborne Micro-Electronics.

As we approached the site I was surprised to see that the construction was not as big as I expected, considering the amount of invested capital. It should, by my reckoning, have been a hell of a sight bigger.

Again the inconsistency.

The old man would never willingly have gone along with this. The main manufacturing building was already complete save the internal fixtures and fittings, with what seemed an odd square annex on one side with no windows and a large roller door. I parked the car and walked over to what I took to be the construction office. As usual with most building sites, the office was empty.

I sat down at the desk and looked through the drawers.

“Should you be doing that?” Julie asked nervously.

“I am a director of this company.”

“Good point.”

“Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing,” came an angry American accented voice from the doorway.

“Thomas Gunn, owner of the Gunn Group and a Director of Rathborne Micro-Electronics,” I said, staring at the slightly paunchy but well built man. “Who the hell are you.”

"I run this site. Whaddaya want?" he said, his stubble-covered chin pushed forward aggressively.

"You may have heard that my father, who started this project, was murdered recently. I'm here to find out what the hell is going on.”

The mention of murder and the implied accusation that it may have something to do with the project, caused a slight change in the man's attitude, and a nervous flicker of his eyes from me to Julie and back to me.

"Listen. I was told that I only discuss business with the Boss."

“I just told you my father was murdered and I
am
the Boss.”

“I don't know nuthin' about that. I do what Mr Ascot tells me.”

“What's your name?”

“Boyd,” he grinned unpleasantly. “You can call me Mister.”

I ignored him, and continued to search through the drawers, throwing papers across the desk. “Where can I find Mr Ascot?”

"You say you own this outfit, if you don’t know, how do you expect me to know? He just calls me on the cell every now and again. Tells me what to do.” He stood looking at me and I knew he was lying.

"I don't see a computer in the office. Where is it?”

“I use a laptop.”

“Where is it?”

“None of your business.”

I picked up a receipt from the desk and held it up for him to see. “I think it is, especially as this is a receipt for a Unisys mainframe computer system, four laptops, four smartphones and four iPads, all paid for by Gunn Group money.”

“Listen, that ain’t me, that's Mr Ascot.”

“Then where are the computers?”

“Dunno. Better ask him. I do as I'm told,” he said sulkily.

“How did you get this job? A mainframe computer is a hard piece of equipment to miss.” I pointed to the odd looking square building. “Is it in there?”

He didn't answer, looked down and shuffled his feet nervously.

“You're American, what are you doing here?”

“Mr Ascot wanted me personal. He pays me to make sure all the work is done good. OK?"

"So you run the whole thing here? Pay the bills for materials, wages, all that stuff."

"No, Mr Ascot does that. Just sends me cash to pay incidentals. Now like I said, you wanna know, you ask him."

"Isn't it odd that a well-known Irish contractor isn't employed on this job?"

“As I said, ask Mr Ascot.”

“Fine. We'll take a look around, but first I want Mr Ascot's mobile number.”

He didn't say a word, just turned and walked out of the office.

“Not the finest example of a fellow countryman,” Julie said wryly. “You are right, something about this whole business smells very stinky.”

We followed him out of the office and saw him disappear around the corner of the main manufacturing building, and a moment later heard the sound of a car starting up and being driven away at speed.

We wandered through the buildings that seemed a complete shambles, and any discussions with the small Irish labour force were none existent as if they had been warned against talking to strangers.

At the side of the factory was a large area under excavation, as if it was to be a huge underground parking area and another area beyond that looked more like a racetrack than anything else.

This didn't seem like a factory for the manufacturing of micro-electronics, more like heavy industry.

We went back to the office and rummaged around in the desk but couldn't find anything, so drove back to the hotel for lunch before driving into Belfast for an appointment with an official of the Northern Ireland Department of Enterprise Trade and Investment.


Mr Gunn, Miss....?”
the short, overweight amiable man in the Department stuttered.

“Sutton.”

“Right, Miss Sutton. My name is Johnson, I had a call from Whitehall, Mr McDougall's office, what can I do for you?”

“As you know I have taken over the Gunn Group of companies and there are some questions about one of our subsidiaries, Rathborne Micro-Electronics, that is being built in Dundonald.”

"Yes I am aware of the company, a very large investment and superb for the economy here. Hopefully it will help keep the City Airport open with all the business it will generate,” he said enthusiastically. “We really need the jobs.”

“I think there maybe something untoward happening. Fraud perhaps,” I said as casually as I could. “There is a lot of money unaccounted for.”

“Really. I'm not aware of anything untoward. But there was something I saw a day or so ago that I thought was odd.” He typed with surprising dexterity with his fat fingers on the computer keyboard. "Here it is. A few days ago we received letter from the President of an American company requesting information about buying the stock of Rathborne Micro-Electronics. We of course referred the matter to your Head Office. I'm surprised you are not aware of the offer. He apparently heard that the company was in financial trouble after the death of Sir Ivan.”

“I am certainly not aware,” I said, trying to sound as astonished as I thought I should be. The truth is nothing astonished me anymore, it just fed into the growing conviction that Julie and I had been thrown into something far bigger than we thought. “Just to whom at Head Office was this information to be passed?”

“Well, actually, according to my records, a Des Ascot who apparently denied that there was such a financial problem and said that the company was certainly not for sale."

"May I enquire as to the name of this American who wants to buy Rathborne?" I asked.

"Well that would be most irregular. You see, matters such as this are most confidential and are not supposed to be released without sanction from Whitehall," he said uncomfortably.

"From Mr McDougall's office no doubt? The very office that set up this meeting we are having.” I was careful to keep my tone friendly, if insistent. Julie shot me a warning glance.

"Well, I don't know. It’s most irregular." He scratched his chin and slowly, typed quickly and nodded his head. "I... well... excuse me if I pop out for a moment, if you understand.” He looked at me, nodded to the screen, got up and left the office, closing the door behind him. I heard him talking to his secretary, walked around the desk and stared at the screen. Julie leaned over my shoulder. It was a letter from a company called De Costas Automotive with an address in California. It was indeed an introduction letter with an offer to buy Rathborne Micro-Electronics, just as Johnson said, and it was signed, Samuel De Costas.

“We need this. Move,” Julie said, pushing me aside typing quickly. The printer on the other side of the office clicked and rapidly spat out two copies of the letter. Then Julie typed quickly, accessing an email account that didn't seem to have anything to do with a Government Department, and sent a copy to her father's email address.

“How do you know all the stuff?”

She smiled. “My father's a computer whizz remember. I did pick some things up as a child. Get the copies from the printer before Johnson gets back.”

I folded the copies, slipped them into my pocket then we returned to our seats just as the door opened and our helpful friend returned. He sat down, saw that his screen was just as he left it, and smiled briefly.

“I had dealings with Sir Ivan, Mr Gunn, I was very shocked and saddened to hear of his murder. If there is anything I can do.” He slid a business card across the desk, which I picked up and slipped into my inside pocket.

“W
hat are you thinking?”
Julie asked as we drove back to the hotel.

“That I'm missing something that's right under my nose.”

“Like what?”

“Like something so obvious nobody would notice.”

Julie looked across at me as if the same thought occurred to her. “I know what you mean. At least I think I know what you mean.”

“No way it can be that simple,” I said as I pulled the car into a parking lot and sat gripping the steering wheel before taking out a pen and Johnson's business card. He had written his private cell phone number on the back and below it I wrote DES ASCOT in capital letter and then DE COSTAS. There it was. Des Ascot was a stupidly simple anagram of De Costas. It seemed a long shot but I knew I was right. Now the missing computer information fitted. It would contain information about the mysterious Ascot/De Costas.

“So if Ascot is De Costas, why write a letter about the company being in financial trouble?” Julie asked echoing my thoughts. “Unless your investigation has triggered unwanted interest. If that was the case then by alerting the authorities and letting the fraud, or whatever it is, be uncovered, that would leave De Costas free to buy out Rathborne for a song.”

“Well it's a theory. But we have no proof.” I pulled out of the parking lot and we drove back to the hotel. There were so many unanswered questions.

We ate an early dinner in our suite having called Mary to check on her, and then I swapped to the burn phone and called Danny.

“My boys looking after you?” he said cheerfully.

“Indeed they are, but their tailing technique could use a little re-training.”

“I'll let them know. I had them put an extra weapon in your bag. Untraceable. Just in case.”

“You are thorough.”

“I try to be.”

“Can you run a check on two names? Des Ascot and Samuel De Costas. Americans.”

“Already ran the first one, didn't come up with anything. And before you ask, his is the name on Rathborne Micro-Electronics.”

BOOK: THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR
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